


Game of the century

by aesc



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Chess, Crack, M/M, just plain ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, obviously Erik isn't 'just anyone,'" Charles said dryly. "He's a valuable ally – somewhat unstable, admittedly, but it just means we need to work harder to keep him happy and keep him from kiting off on some insane, revenge-related activity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game of the century

**Game of the century**

"You must like him an _awful_ lot."

Raven had caught him trying to sneak off to his study. She'd actually been lying in wait, Charles suspected; she'd ambushed him by the side staircase, the staircase each of them used only when on their way to do something they would either be teased about or lectured on, or both, and tonight's activities certainly counted. Raven knew him far too well by now, telepathy or otherwise.

"Seriously," Raven continued, her voice a few decibels shy of making her audible throughout the entire mansion – _Really, Raven,_ Charles said, _I don't think Hank heard you down in his lab_ – "Seriously!" Raven repeated, undeterred, "You never do this for just anyone."

"Well, obviously Erik isn't 'just anyone,'" Charles said dryly. "He's a valuable ally – somewhat unstable, admittedly, but it just means we need to work harder to keep him happy and keep him from kiting off on some insane, revenge-related activity."

"Mmmmm, I'll let you get down to 'work' to 'keep him happy,' in that case," Raven said with a leer that absolutely did not belong on Charles's little sister's face. "Just don't complain to me that you're bored out of your skull and you completely fail to get in his pants."

"We usually end up talking anyway." Charles elected to ignore the second part of Raven's statement. "It's fine."

"I'm sure it is," Raven said, and melted back into the shadows behind the potted fern.

* * *

Erik sighed as he studied the board in front of him and tried to remember which way the damn rooks were allowed to move.

There had been a chess set in Schmidt's office, although it had been more for display and not, Erik knew, because Schmidt – Shaw, whoever – appreciated the subtleties of the game. _Chess_ , Schmidt had been fond of saying, _is for those who lack the ruthlessness to do what chess requires in real life: sacrifice the lives of others to achieve victory._ It was one of the very few things Erik agreed with in Schmidt's demented philosophy lectures.

"It's your move," Charles said impatiently. And, Erik thought, a little blurrily; the bottle of Macallan on the table between them was well on its way to being empty.

Mostly to get it over with, Erik moved a pawn back a square.

"You can't do that."

"My apologies." Erik moved a rook instead. "It's been so very long since I've played."

"Of course," Charles said immediately, impatience melting into his habitual compassion. "I should apologize, Erik."

"No need." Idly, Erik swirled his tumbler of Scotch and watched Charles ponder the board. "I'm glad I can play with you."

Charles offered him a pained smile and made his next move. Erik attributed the pain to the incipient hangover, and figured some compassion of his own was in order. Instead of trying to figure out a way to neutralize the threat Charles's knight was presenting to his king, Erik said, "Why don't you tell me about Cerebro again?" just to watch Charles's face light up.

* * *

In case it isn't obvious by now, Charles hated chess.

His mother, influenced by his diabolical stepfather, had signed him up for lessons when he was eight. Chess was, according to his mother (meaning, according to Dr. Marko), the game proper young geniuses learned to play, if only so they could show off their antique chess sets and learn good sportsmanship without becoming excessively sweaty and bloody playing lacrosse or football. Charles, who had a certain amount of scrappiness and energy that would much rather have been exerted on a sports field of some kind, had agreed only on condition he would also be allowed to take lessons in a sport – not a board game – of his own choosing.

Accordingly, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays became chess lesson and practice days. Charles also managed to find the only junior rugby club in upstate New York, and went to that three times a week.

"It's a thrilling game," his good-hearted chess master was fond of saying. He would gesture enthusiastically, splashing tea on his sleeve and, one time, flinging a biscuit across the room. From behind the haze of a newly-blackened eye, Charles watched and tried to look attentive. "Strategy, tactics, learning to take the long view of events while adapting to the challenges presented by your opponent… truly, truly thrilling."

Even at eight years old, Charles knew better than to point out that, when one is capable of reading one's opponent's mind and seeing their plans laid out as neatly as if laid out on a map, the thrill of surprise tends to be minimal, if not distinctly absent.

So when Erik Lehnsherr walked into Charles's life and into their shared living area at Langley and pulled the chess set from the assortment of board games and gazed at it intently, it was with a sinking feeling that Charles remembered that even very perfect-seeming people, people with whom one would unhesitatingly have sex if ever given the opportunity, have their flaws.

"Do you play?" he asked, striving to sound hopeful and invested, even as he restrained himself from diving into Erik's mind and planting the suggestion that no, no he most emphatically did not. Tempting as it was, Charles _did_ have scruples, and telling someone they hated doing something they loved, or vice-versa, constituted a violation of all sorts of boundaries, and Charles had sworn to Erik he'd stay out of his head from now on.

"I used to," Erik said, after staring at Charles for a minute. "I haven't had occasion to play in a very long time, though. Very long."

"We ought to have a game then," Charles said, and thanked god he was a _very_ convincing liar.

* * *

The games filled the few evenings they had to themselves at the CIA base, and they continued when Charles, to Erik's well-concealed dismay, presented him with a travel chess set they could use to kill time on airplanes and in motel rooms. Erik had only a passing familiarity with the game, and wondered if his life-long quest for vengeance (or the hypothermia from the disaster with the _Caspartina_ ) had finally done what Schmidt's experiments could not, when he found himself spending his free time reading books on basic chess strategy. He had never once, in all his memory, willingly gone out of his way to make another human being (or mutant, whatever) happy, but there was something about Charles – something infuriating, that had to do with blue eyes and endless optimism, and an enthusiasm that seized Erik by the scruff of the neck and dragged him along – that made trudging through endless diagrams of openings and endgames marginally less awful.

Also, they usually ended up talking, the game abandoned and forgotten between them. Charles could talk on any subject with interest and a drunken eloquence that Erik found unnervingly attractive, and after the four hours their "games" usually took, Erik found himself lying in bed, tense and yearning, and _Charles Charles Charles_ circling through his blood.

The night Charles turned to him and, instead of making his next move, said, "Erik, I am so terribly glad you're here with me," (almost) made the boredom of twenty-three prior chess games worth it, and later on Erik turned to his study of the Four Pawns Attack with (slightly) renewed interest.

* * *

Both the CIA's chess set and Charles's travel set had been abandoned in the flight from Langley, but if Charles had thought he was going to escape from chess at last, he had another thought coming. Too late, he remembered that he had the antique set in the study, the set that he kept out for the sake of appearances (and also because he couldn't find the box and was too busy to go looking), and that Erik had of course – within seconds of walking in – discovered it.

"That used to be my father's," Charles said, meaning to follow that up with how it was really too delicate to use, such a tragedy (and a total lie), but Erik had gone all soft at the corners of his mouth, a gentle smile that managed to cut Charles to the heart and a sudden ripple of memory he couldn't quite keep himself from overhearing, Erik's father carving a piece of mahogany to pass the time. "If you'll give me a tick to get us something to drink, we can play a round before turning in."

"If you like," Erik said distantly.

"Tell me," Charles said as he poured their drinks and Erik set the board (properly this time; the poor man seemed to have some kind of hangup concerning the placement of the rooks), "what are your feelings on West Germany's chances in the World Cup?"

"That," Erik said, "is not a subject you want to start me on."

"It sounds," Charles said, and handed Erik his glass – their fingers brushed, a buzz of warmth and delight that Charles found entirely too distracting – "It sounds like I very much want to."

* * *

After two months, the only future Erik could imagine involved sitting down with Charles every night, opening a game, and getting perhaps ten moves in before settling down to the much more serious business of drinking, talking, and arguing.

"Damn, you guys must be good," Sean said during breakfast one morning. "I went down to the kitchen at like two or something, for, um… for, you know, food, and you two were still going at it."

"Erik is a very formidable opponent," said Charles.

"Charles is quite good," said Erik, ignoring Raven's snickering _I bet he is_.

"I honestly, _honestly_ can't believe that you want to turn being a mutant into some kind of existential position," Erik fumed that night. They were twelve moves in, Charles's turn, and several glasses deep in a bottle of something with a name Erik had never heard and probably cost as much as a small country. In the honey-yellow light of the study and the glow of the Scotch, Charles was beautiful. "We are what we are; isn't that enough?"

"But we're so many things!" Charles's eyes were glossy with alcohol and excitement, his cheeks flushed. Beautiful, Erik thought helplessly. "I'm not _just_ a mutant, it's only one asp – aspec – bloody hell, _aspect_ of who I am, my totality as a living orgasm – organism. My _identity_." He punctuated his statement by thumping his glass down on the tabletop; the Scotch slopped over the rim of the glass and drenched the bishop Erik had cunningly managed to pin in the corner. "And that's… that's that," Charles concluded and beamed at Erik triumphantly.

"It's your move," Erik grunted, "and I still think it's counterproductive to do… whatever it is you were trying to do. Waste of our fucking time."

"Nonsense." Charles hiccupped, made his move, and goddammit, the bishop hadn't been as pinned as Erik had thought. "Check."

"Speaking of wasting our fucking time." Erik scowled at the board and tried to work out how to get his king out of trouble, and not think about how he was wasting his time making himself ridiculous over Charles, imagining that lovely, animate mouth on him when Charles seemed perfectly happy to play chess, talk, and drink for the next eternity.

"It's never a waste of time doing something you love." Charles said this with his usual, terrifying passion, unbothered by the fact that people just _did not_ say these sorts of things out loud. "It's always a pleasure to play with you, Erik, truly."

Erik sighed.

* * *

This state of affairs would have continued indefinitely, if it hadn't been for Raven. As with most things related to his sister, Charles had no idea whether to bless or curse her.

It happened in the kitchen, in the after-dinner chaos that had fallen to Raven's lot to clean up that night.

"Off for your little sex ritual?" she asked, up to her elbows in suds and lasagna grease. "Oh, I mean _chess game_?"

"What?" Charles snapped. He and Erik had, in fact, been going to get ready for the game, which meant Charles pulling on the cardigan that showed off his eyes (and Erik, although Charles didn't know this, taking extra time with his hair). "Raven, honestly, just because you're frustrated with Hank doesn't mean you ought to take it out on us."

The look on Raven's face said he would be made to pay for that remark later. "I'm just saying," Raven said dangerously, hefting a sponge and waving it at him, "that it's been months now, Charles, and I haven't had had your post-sex smugness projected into my head not even once. What the hell is going on?"

"I do no such thing," Charles protested. "And, Raven, I'm doing this for Erik because it really _is_ important to him, and not because I have ulterior motives or whatever. It's something he used to do before the war, and if I can help give him some sense of peace and normalcy, well, I'm very glad to do what I can."

"Even though you once told your mother that you'd rather let the entire White Plains junior rugby team use your head for goal practice, than spend another five minutes learning chess." Raven whistled. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"Cry, possibly," Charles said, "because Erik is standing in the doorway, and – " he brushed the finger of a thought over Erik's mind (it's self-preservation, Xavier, it doesn't count) " – oh dear."

"You," Erik said from the shadows in the doorway, "don't like chess."

"I'll leave you two alone," Raven said, and, abandoning Charles to his fate, fled out the door that led to the storeroom and the courtyard.

"You don't like chess," Erik said again. He moved more fully into the light, predatory and elegant, and despite knowing the jig was up (as they say), Charles couldn't help staring, and this was all _so very awkward_.

"That would be putting it mildly," Charles said. He might as well admit it himself, and there was something to be said for preserving what dignity one could in situations like this. "I was compelled by my mother and stepfather to play it as part of their program to produce an acceptable young man. The resentment came naturally."

"I see," Erik said, with a curious flatness that Charles positively ached to suss out. "And you never thought to tell me."

"You seemed to enjoy it," Charles sighed. "And you seemed to have precious few things to enjoy in your life, other than revenge killing I mean, and really, I didn't mind it at all. I quite enjoyed it. At least, the parts where we weren't playing chess."

"Oh, Charles." The anger-irritation-annoyance melted out of Erik, the tension dissolving from the long lines of his shoulders and torso as Erik leaned back against the counter. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Charles asked, and then, as if Erik had deliberately _thought_ it at him, "Wait… you don't like chess either?"

"Hate it," Erik said ruefully. "It's one of my many unreasoning prejudices."

"I don't believe this," Charles mumbled, and leaned back against the counter himself. They were close enough for Erik's elbow to brush against his own, close enough that, if Charles wanted to insinuate one hand over Erik's (and were insane enough to do so), he could.

"You don't believe this?" Erik echoed. "Couldn't you just have…" He waved a hand by the side of his head. " _Looked_?"

"I promised you I wouldn't _look_ ," Charles said huffily, "and anyway, it's not like I had 'How does Erik Lehnsherr feel about chess' uppermost in my thoughts when I was trying to figure out how to keep you from killing yourself. And after that I was mostly concerned with figuring out how to keep you from running off and… well killing yourself after I'd gone through all that trouble to save you."

They stood there silently for a moment. Erik stared down at his feet, possibly contemplating the leather of his shoes, possibly contemplating how he managed to end up throwing in his lot with a crazed, chess-hating telepath. The itch to find out tickled low in Charles's temporal lobe.

"Raven also mentioned," Erik said slowly, "that you project smugness after you have sex."

"Oh, dear Christ," Charles mumbled. Heat flooded his face, and he seriously considered wiping Erik's memory of this entire debacle and fleeing for the safety of his room. "Just so you know, Raven _completely_ misinterpreted my motives." He cast around for something else to say, at least, something else that wasn't an utter lie, like _I have no interest in sleeping with you_ or _My thoughts have been wholly pure when it comes to you_. "That is… well, she just has. I'm so sorry, there's no helping her."

"What if…" Erik's fingers had started to draw meditative circles on the granite counter top. "What if I would be fine with Raven misinterpreting your motives?"

If there was uncertainty in his voice, Charles couldn't find any in Erik's face when he finally summoned up the courage to look at him. Erik's pale eyes were somber, as always, and serious, _determined_ , as if he'd decided on a course of action and was now going to see it through.

When Charles looked up and, when Erik nodded curtly, allowed himself the faintest, _just-to-be-sure_ dip into Erik's cortex, he didn't bother to keep back the wave of _pleasure-want-surprise_ at what he found there. Didn't bother, _couldn't_.

* * *

Charles kissed quite beautifully, Erik thought, as close to bliss as he'd come in quite some time. He did many things beautifully, the twist of his body against Erik's an eloquent argument for being naked together all the time, the heartfelt sighs and moans and the sweet, lovely slide of his thoughts alongside Erik's, and when he'd worked Erik to orgasm he'd done it with the same passion and intensity he did everything and made Erik want to keep him there, with him, forever. Even the projected post-sex smugness had something to be said for it. It wrapped softly around Charles and even extended to him, and made Erik's bones go liquid with pleasure, and really, Erik decided, chess was not entirely bad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, this is _not_ what I was planning to write today. But Elaur made a comment over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/372388) about chess and Charles and Erik, and I replied and inadvertently gave myself a plot bunny.
> 
> I'm kind of recovering from Major Life Events (I'm Dr. aesc now! Woo hoo!), traveling, and am now in the process of getting sick, but I swear to have an update to either or both of the actual, not-crack fics very very soon.


End file.
